


The Second Time

by QoS



Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Angst, Emotional Manipulation, Friendship, Humor, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-14
Updated: 2018-06-30
Packaged: 2019-04-22 15:13:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 18,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14311461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QoS/pseuds/QoS
Summary: After Motormaster flattens Drag Strip, the other Stunticons decide to make him a functional member of the team. Except Wildrider's too blunt about it, Dead End doesn't care, and Breakdown...well, Breakdown comes up with a clever plan. That was his first mistake.





	1. Making a Plan

**Author's Note:**

> The sequel to "The First Time". Enjoy! And please leave a review - I love hearing what my readers think.

Motormaster’s meetings with his team were typically short and to the point, and the other Stunticons gathered in his quarters because there was an unspoken sentiment that the common room was their territory. Not that they could have stopped Motormaster from stalking in at any time he wanted, but it still felt like theirs rather than his.

Breakdown had a vague feeling that that wasn’t very teamlike, but since he didn’t have much to compare their gestalt dynamics to, he accepted that as normal. And at least in battle, they were a team. As Motormaster had just pointed out, their crazy headlong charges had worked against groundbound Autobots and still terrorized humans beautifully, but were failing against the Aerialbots, who not only worked with more coordination, but had the advantage of superior height and speed.

 _You know you’re a threat when the enemy has to create a whole new gestalt to deal with you,_ Breakdown thought with a touch of pride. He didn’t know if the idea he’d come up with would work, but Motormaster had thought it was worth a try, and had then grinned at him in a way that suggested Breakdown was slagged no matter what the outcome. If the plan failed, he’d take the blame; if it succeeded, he would be called upon to provide more such inspirations in the future. So Breakdown tried to stand as much behind Wildrider as he could while the four of them listened to Motormaster.

“We keep a low profile until we get to the human settlements,” Motormaster was saying, “’cause the Aerialbots aren’t going to be sent into cities to fight. Too many casualties that way.”

“But once we’re out on the open road, we’re easy targets,” Dead End pointed out.

“Yeah. So one of us hits the thrusters and draws their attention. They always fire on anyone who’s nearer their level than the ground. But while they dump altitude and get into position for that, they don’t expect anyone to do the same to them – and that’s when another of you gets them in the tailfins.”

“And I suppose I’ll be the unfortunate bait in this trap?”

“Sure. You keep yourself all shiny for a reason, right? One that does some good for us as a team?” Motormaster’s grin vanished as though it had never existed. “Now get lost and practice that maneuver.”

“Would be cool if we had a jet to practice it with,” Wildrider whispered as they filed out.

Dead End sighed. “I keep noticing a certain size discrepancy in a fighter plane attacking a Porsche.” He looked down at his gleaming chassis as if he was laying optics on it for the last time.

“Um,” Breakdown said hesitantly. “Wouldn’t you attack them even if you were larger than them?”

“Well, of course,” Dead End said. “But what’s your point? We’re all driving down the road to dusty death, you know. I just prefer the Aerialbots to be ahead of me on that particular route.”

Drag Strip was silent, as usual. He had stood beside them and listened with no reaction, and now he went to his room as if nothing had been said. Wildrider caught Breakdown’s questioning look and raised his optic ridges. Dead End tilted his head very slightly towards Motormaster’s room and Wildrider’s hardly discernible nod finished the silent conversation.

They had only been online for a month, in Earth time, but they could communicate without a single word being spoken. Breakdown supposed it was part of being a gestalt.

 _Not really a complete one, though,_ he thought. When they merged, certainly. But when they were merged they were Menasor, and that was a whole new level of being a gestalt. When they didn’t merge he felt as though it was just him, Wildrider and Dead End, with someone missing. And not Motormaster, who was well aware of his position as their leader and would never have lowered himself to join them in anything except missions and battles.

Drag Strip’s absence seemed to have an effect on the rest of them as well, because they drove to the commissary in unusual silence, and Breakdown couldn’t shake the feeling that a bright yellow racecar should have been tearing ahead of them, determined to be there first. He could guess that Motormaster had finally gotten tired of Drag Strip’s attitude, and had proceeded to knock some sense into him, but that shouldn’t have produced so much of a change.

“We gotta do something about it,” Wildrider said when the three of them were back in their common room with their energon.

No need to spell things out, not in a gestalt. “Such as?” Dead End said.

“I dunno, but I kind of miss having him around.” Wildrider shrugged. “I mean, even being a jerk is better than being all quiet.”

“But why would that make him so… well, different?” Breakdown said, puzzled. “I mean, we’ve all been in Motormaster’s berth and none of us are like that.”

“Good point,” Dead End said. “Wildrider, what was Drag Strip like after the two of you first interfaced?”

“Me?” Wildrider said. “We’ve never done it. I asked once and he said no thanks.” He frowned. “No, he didn’t say thanks.”

Breakdown shook his head even before Dead End could look at him. He didn’t particularly like Drag Strip, and certainly didn’t feel confident or comfortable around him, so propositioning him would have been out of the question. “Wait… you didn’t either?”

“No.” The visor and mask made it impossible to see Dead End’s facial expressions, but Breakdown could hear the mild surprise in his tone. “Well, well. It appears Motormaster got there first.”

Wildrider let out a low whistle. “You think that’s why…”

“Perhaps. Drag Strip did look somewhat unkempt afterwards. I know I’d be depressed if I had so many scuffs and scrapes to fill in and repaint.”

Breakdown decided not to point out that Dead End was already depressed and seemed likely to stay that way. “So what do we do about this?” He couldn’t help wondering, if Drag Strip continued to be so closed-off and solitary, would Motormaster try beating him into shape yet again? That kind of pressure would tear anyone apart.

And they were a team, or supposed to be one. Only Motormaster had a good reason for his relative separation from the rest of them – and even he wasn’t as distant as Drag Strip.

Dead End tipped his cube up, then seemed to realize that it was empty, so he just looked down at it as if it had personally disappointed him in some way. “One of you may want to persuade Drag Strip that there’s something to be gained from this type of camaraderie, pointless though it is.”

Breakdown didn’t understand the last part, but the first was all too clear. “Wait, what do you mean, one of us? What about you?”

“How’re we supposed to persuade him?” Wildrider said at the same time.

Given the choice of two questions to answer, Dead End always went for the easier one. “Ask him if he wants to join us here, and if he refuses, suggest interfacing instead. After all, we’re much more palatable in that regard than Motormaster is, so he should be quite amenable to it. That should improve his mood.”

“So, in normal-talk, ask if he wants to frag ‘cause we’re better than the boss?”

“Oh, that plan’s bound to succeed,” Breakdown muttered.

“Give it a try, Wildrider,” Dead End said, ignoring him, so Wildrider tossed back his cube, finished Breakdown’s as well – perhaps fortifying himself for the job – and bounced out of the room. Dead End put on a DVD and made himself more comfortable on the couch.

“We really need a large-screen TV,” he said after a moment.

Breakdown made a noncommittal sound. Even if he had been able to devote all his attention to the film, it wouldn’t have done him much good – although the human actors seemed to be speaking English, he couldn’t make any sense of what they were saying.

Dead End seemed to have noticed his distraction. “There’s a battle at the end. Everyone dies.”

 _Oh, what fun. I can hardly wait._ Breakdown checked his internal chronometer.

Before five minutes had passed, the door opened again and Wildrider ambled in. Breakdown knew he wasn’t very good at choosing the best word for anything, but he would have been even more hard-pressed to describe the look on Wildrider’s face.

“I take it you were unsuccessful?” Dead End said, sounding as though he had expected such an outcome all along.

“Yeah.” Wildrider sat down on an arm of the couch, optic ridges drawing together. “Man. That was weird. He said okay, but it was like… I dunno, being with a drone or something.” He grimaced. “I didn’t even finish. It just wasn’t any fun.”

Breakdown leaned to one side, lightly bumping Wildrider’s leg with his shoulder-tire. Wildrider pressed back, some of the confusion fading from his face. “You want me to try again?”

“No!” Breakdown said. Wildrider meant well, but his approach was always open, direct and infused with his own particular brand of crazy enjoyment, all of which seemed to be the exact opposite of Drag Strip at the moment.

“No,” Dead End agreed without looking away from the screen. “You’d better take over, Breakdown.”

“Me?” Breakdown said. “Why not you?”

“There’s still an hour left of _Hamlet_ , and I want to watch the ‘To be or not to be’ monologue. Besides, why should I bother? It doesn’t matter to me one way or another.”

“But we’ll need to function as a coherent team in battle.”

“I believe you mean cohesive, and if you feel so strongly about it, that just backs up my point about you dealing with Drag Strip. Anyway, you’re the scout. It’s your job to investigate unknown territory before the rest of us arrive on the scene.”

Breakdown sighed, conceding defeat. “Oh, all right. I’ll do it.” He turned sideways on the couch, resting his head against Wildrider’s thigh and putting his feet up on Dead End’s lap. Wildrider looked down at him expectantly, while Dead End gave the feet a pointed stare.

“What?” Breakdown said, enjoying the moment. “I’m not going to march in there right after Wildrider failed. Drag Strip will know at once that we’re working together and he’ll shut off even more.”

Dead End tilted his head a little in concession. “When will you do it, then?”

“After I’ve had time to think about it.” He knew he would need a subtle, slow approach to get past Drag Strip’s guard.

A hand settled on his helm and began to stroke it. “You’re hot when you get all thinky,” Wildrider said, “and I’m still kind of revved up…”

Breakdown shook his head. “Can’t frag. Planning.”


	2. Sharing a Kiss

Subtle and slow was not exactly a Stunticon forte, but Breakdown thought that Dead End was right about one thing. He was the scout, which meant he’d been created to drive alone into strange ground without drawing attention to his approach. _I can do that_ , he thought with a flicker of confidence that felt all the better because it was rare for him.

For the next two days, he behaved just as always. So did Dead End, but Wildrider developed an annoying habit of sending significant glances in Breakdown’s direction whenever Drag Strip was nearby, then nudging or elbowing him as if expecting Breakdown to jump the racer’s struts on the spot. Fortunately Drag Strip was so remote that he didn’t notice, and Breakdown managed to control an urge to punch Wildrider.

He put his plan into action on the third day, when the four of them practised maneuvers in the training room. Dead End paired off with Wildrider, so Breakdown worked with Drag Strip. _Good thing I’m not attracted to him,_ he thought. He knew himself; any real interest and he would have been uncertain, hesitant, nervous about making the first move. Now, though, he had everything worked out.

Phase 1, as he thought of it, was easier than he had expected. After they were done, Dead End and Wildrider started to leave the room. Breakdown said he wanted to practise one last time, and Drag Strip shrugged his assent.

Breakdown had to give him that much: no matter what Drag Strip’s other problems were, they didn’t interfere with his battle moves. His leap was a perfect arc that carried him well clear of the simulated jet as it began to descend, and Breakdown took advantage of the moment to put on a burst of speed that took him to the racecar’s side. He transformed at the same time Drag Strip did.

“Not bad,” he said. Then he leaned forward and touched Drag Strip’s mouth with his own.

It wasn’t a kiss at all – it was a light brush of plating against sensitive plating, red over pale blue – and Breakdown raised his head at once, as if nothing had happened. “Well, I’m off to get some energon,” he said. He transformed and drove off without a single backward look.

_On to Phase 2,_ he thought.

* * * *

Breakdown was careful to treat Drag Strip just as he usually did. He wanted Drag Strip to decide that the incident in the training room was some sort of one-off random act, maybe Breakdown finally going as nuts as Wildrider, maybe something he had imagined. The whole point of the plan was to make Drag Strip want him – want him badly – but he couldn’t do that by coming on too strong. That would remind Drag Strip of Motormaster.

His next opportunity came when he went to their common room. Drag Strip was alone there, sitting straight-backed on the edge of the couch and turning over a few of Wildrider’s DVDs so he could read the blurbs on the boxes. Breakdown nearly said, _Wildrider won’t mind if you watch those,_ but stopped himself. _Not too much niceness, he won’t want to feel pitied._

Drag Strip’s head came up sharply when he entered, but Breakdown was already glancing over the room as he walked in. He suppressed a smile when he saw the magazine near Drag Strip’s foot – really, that was too easy.

“I was just looking for this,” he said, and stooped down to pick it up. He kept his optics fixed on the cover, which bore a picture of Mirage caught in mid-fade and a large energon stain in the shape of Wildrider’s thumb. _Quick and easy,_ he thought as he started to straighten up. He kissed Drag Strip again.

The movement was so casual and spontaneous that Drag Strip had no time to flinch back, much less prepare for it. Not that there was anything he had to brace for. Breakdown kept his mouth in a closed firm line, only pressing it down gently for a moment longer than he had before, just long enough to feel the warmth of Drag Strip’s lips beneath his. Then he straightened up and was once more absorbed in the magazine as he walked out.

He only allowed himself to smile when he was back in his own quarters.

* * * *

Phase 3 began the moment he drove into the hangar to leave for their next mission and saw Drag Strip turn away slightly. If he hadn’t been watching for that – and if he hadn’t been the kind of mech who was hypersensitive to everything he saw and everything that might see him – Breakdown would have missed it. As it was, he couldn’t even tell if or when Drag Strip had been watching him, since it was impossible to see Drag Strip’s optics behind his visor.

But now he felt a quiet satisfaction as as the docking tower rose. _So he’s noticed me. Perfect._ Of all the Stunticons, Breakdown knew he was the least likely to be noticed (which was how he liked it). He didn’t have Motormaster’s hulking presence, Dead End’s glossy good looks or Wildrider’s energetic lunacy. That didn’t matter now, though. He’d registered on Drag Strip’s radar all right.

And their mission succeeded, although he turned out to be the bait. As Motormaster put it, the Autobots would expect to catch him by himself, spying on a new satellite tracking station. Breakdown did get fired on twice, but his forcefield took care of the damage and although he landed wheels-up in a ditch, he had the satisfaction of hearing over his radio that the four ‘bots on guard there had been forced into limping retreat.

The humans had all fled by then, so Dead End released Laserbeak, who was supposed to add a device to the station which would secretly transmit its findings to Soundwave. Motormaster hadn’t been very pleased at the knowledge that he couldn’t damage the station, so after he had ordered a protesting Wildrider into his trailer he drove off to find something else to destroy. Breakdown transformed, brushed dirt off his plating and plodded over to where Drag Strip was sitting on a low hill. He was cleaning his gun while keeping an optic out for more ‘bots, but he went still when he saw Breakdown. Every line of his frame radiated wariness.

That was all right with Breakdown, though. He would have postponed the moment if he’d seen obvious fear, but he didn’t mind Drag Strip just being tense around him.

“You okay?” he said as he sat down, staying near but careful not to touch Drag Strip’s plating. A few scorch marks and deep scrapes marred the bright yellow paint, but none of them looked serious.

“I’m fine,” Drag Strip said shortly, never looking away from him.

Despite the curtness of the answer and the uneasy sensation he nearly always got when someone stared at him, Breakdown felt as though another part of his plan had snicked smoothly into place, like different components meshing together in a transformation. That was the first time since the Motormaster incident that Drag Strip had spoken to him.

“Yes, you are,” he said quietly and put one palm flat on the ground to brace and balance himself as he leaned close. He was alert to any warning signs – either Drag Strip freezing at his touch, which would be bad, or Drag Strip getting ready to punch him in the face, which would be worse – but neither happened. Drag Strip didn’t move as Breakdown kissed him again, as lightly as before. Breakdown was equally alert to any signs that Drag Strip was being turned on, but his sensors picked up nothing.

Then Drag Strip’s lips parted under his.

Breakdown drew back immediately. “I think Laserbeak’s done,” he said, getting up. “C’mon, let’s go find the others.”

_“Having fun, Breakdown?”_ Dead End said over the radio. _“Wildrider and I made a bet on how long it’ll take you.”_

_“You can’t rush perfection,”_ Breakdown said primly as he transformed. In his rear-view mirror he had a glimpse of the confusion on Drag Strip’s face, and for a moment he wondered if he was going about things the wrong way. _Drag Strip’s going to be really torqued off if he ever finds out this was all part of a plan,_ he thought.

Then Drag Strip transformed as well and Breakdown gave a mental shrug as they drove off.


	3. Playing a Trick

The _Nemesis_ had cleaning drones, but not many of them. So the most common punishment for minor transgressions was cleaning duty, which was how Breakdown found himself climbing down into the lowest storage bay with a bucket of detergent.

He had nearly botched a mission by abandoning his position when he realized he was the target of a film crew. Most humans ran when they saw ‘con cars, but it hadn’t occurred to him that some of them were filming him from a helicopter instead, especially since they had painted the slagging thing to match one of the Combaticons. His only consolation was that the other Stunticons had managed to pull the assignment back together.

Plus, one of the Autobots had fired on the Vortex lookalike. That had sent Wildrider into a fit of giggles and put even Motormaster into an almost amiable mood, which was why Breakdown had been given cleaning duty rather than being hurled into the nearest wall.

The storage bay didn’t particularly bother him – he sometimes found good hideaways to which he could retreat when he couldn’t shake the feeling that Soundwave had installed hidden, undetectable, damageproof cameras in his room. It was a little disheartening to know that he was being punished for something he couldn’t really help and would do again in the future, though.

And he hated the graffiti. The first thing he saw when he had climbed down there was his own name; someone had painted “Breakdown does it with cameras” on the wall. Breakdown scrubbed that out immediately and ferociously. _If I find out who wrote that I’ll sabotage him,_ he thought as he began to clean the rest of the wall, trying not to think of how much there was to do.

Light footfalls sounded on the steps behind him and he glanced up from his work, hoping that it wasn’t someone who needed to use the storage bay – or worse, someone who might laugh at his misfortune. Even in the dim light, though, he recognized the yellow paintjob before he looked up at Drag Strip.

“What are you doing here?” he said blankly.

Drag Strip shrugged one shoulder, looking more closed-off than ever. Even his voice was expressionless when he spoke. “Thought you might want a hand,” he said as if expecting to be refused and prepared to go back to the upper levels at any moment.

“Oh… sure.” Surprised though he was, Breakdown rallied fast. “Here.” He pushed the bucket forward a little and tossed a cleaning cloth at Drag Strip, who caught it in mid-air and started to work.

Breakdown continued on his side of the storage bay, but he felt on edge. If Wildrider had come to help him, the two of them would have ended up throwing detergent at each other and having a slippery tussle. Dead End would have complained about smears on his beautiful finish and tried to get him to do as much of the cleaning as possible. Drag Strip just worked in silence, though when Breakdown gave him a swift surreptitious glance from the corners of his optics, he could see the rigidity in every line of Drag Strip’s posture.

Breakdown was equally tense, though for a different reason. Being alone with Drag Strip so soon hadn’t factored into his plan – that was at least Phase 5. _But it’s all right, my plans can take unexpected events into account, they’re adoptable. Okay, how to get out of this?_ It was one thing to play kiss-and-run when they were in a public location – he had a good reason for doing so then – but in a private place like the storage bay? Even Drag Strip might realize his withdrawal was a calculated move.

If the interruption came from someone else, though, Drag Strip would still be kept off-guard but puzzled, unsure of what Breakdown wanted – or if, indeed, Breakdown wanted anything besides a few chaste kisses that were nevertheless growing steadily less chaste each time. Most of all, he wanted Drag Strip thirsty for more of that slow, coaxing seduction.

 _I’ll ask Dead End to send us both a query ping, say we’re wanted for something. Yeah, that’d work._ He was so caught up in his thoughts that he scrubbed repeatedly at a particularly stubborn patch of purple before he realized that he was trying to remove the Decepticon emblem from the wall.

Feeling relieved, he decided to make conversation, or at least small talk. Working in complete silence wouldn’t have bothered him if he’d done it with any other ‘cons, but it was weird to do so with a teammate.

“Here’s a funny one,” he said as he climbed on a crate to reach one of the higher bits of graffiti. “Astrotrain has tunnel vision.”

With his face to the wall, he couldn’t tell whether that had any effect, but a moment later Drag Strip said, “I don’t get some of these jokes. Like this one. What do you call very fashionable Decepticons?”

Breakdown frowned. “What?”

“Pradacons.”

Breakdown searched his memory files to find out why that was funny but came up with nothing, so after getting down from the crate, he finished his wall. He considered leaving intact a perfectly executed drawing of Megatron with cannon arm extended, until Drag Strip pointed out that the cannon had been drawn with its ends reversed, which meant sketch-Megatron would have blown his own head off if he had fired. So Breakdown scrubbed that off as well, then dropped his cleaning cloth into the bucket. _What’s going to happen next is still part of my plan. I’m still in control. Things are going fine._

He activated his radio. “ _Dead End? As soon as I ping you, can you send a message to both me and Drag Strip? Tell us we’re both urgently needed for something._ ”

“ _Oh, very well._ ”

Breakdown cut the comm. “Thanks for your help,” he said.

Drag Strip shrugged again, but said nothing. The brief almost-sociable moments during the cleaning might never have existed; he seemed to have gone back to a wary silence.

Breakdown stepped closer, careful to keep a handspan of space between him and Drag Strip. One thing he was certain about was that he couldn’t risk doing anything Motormaster might have done.

Drag Strip didn’t move. A single drop of detergent fell from the rag clenched in his hand.

Without giving any sign that he had noticed that, Breakdown brought his free hand up slowly, giving Drag Strip enough time to draw away. He touched the side of Drag Strip’s face, stroking his cheek before resting his fingers along the line of Drag Strip’s jaw, palm cupping his chin. There was still no response other than the warming of smooth metal under the touch, but Breakdown was prepared for that.

He kissed one corner of Drag Strip’s mouth, then the other. Then, taking his time, he fitted their closed lips together, as carefully as if putting together a puzzle made of glass. He didn’t push inside, only let his mouth caress Drag Strip’s. To his surprise, his own core temperature rose a degree or two. He’d expected to be a little turned on by his own success in getting so far, but it hadn’t occurred to him that it could be exciting to kiss even without being able to lick and taste.

Slowly, tentatively, Drag Strip parted his lips.

Breakdown smiled inwardly at the silent invitation, then tilted his head so that he could take Drag Strip’s lower lip into his mouth and suck gently on it. He heard Drag Strip gasp, the sound muffled against his mouth, and immediately sent a ping to Dead End.

The reply, on the Stunticon common channel, was just as fast and made them both draw apart. “ _What?_ ” Drag Strip said at the same time Breakdown replied, “ _Yes?_ ”

“ _You’re both urgently needed for something._ ” Dead End sounded bored half into recharge.

“ _For what?_ ” Drag Strip said.

Breakdown had a sudden horrible feeling that Dead End – obviously uninterested enough to repeat word-for-word what he had said – wouldn’t bother making up anything else either. But he muttered something about Motormaster wanting to see both of them, and Drag Strip didn’t seem inclined to say anything after that, even to ask why Motormaster hadn’t simply commed them himself.

So they went back up to what Breakdown thought of as their level of the ship and waited outside Motormaster’s door for what felt like a very long time until Wildrider roared by. He pulled up with a screech of brakes, asked if they were playing a game, and said that Motormaster had hit the highways by himself that morning and wasn’t expected back for at least three hours.

Drag Strip looked furious, which Breakdown thought was still an improvement from his previous state. And since Breakdown could hardly admit that he’d been in on the whole thing, he pretended to be annoyed too and suggested that they do something about it.

Half an hour later Dead End came out of his room, only to set off a trap that dumped a bucket of detergent on him, but Breakdown and Drag Strip were both safely in their own quarters by then.


	4. Taking the Plunge

For the next two days, Breakdown avoided Drag Strip. When they had practice sessions, he was careful to pair up with Dead End or Wildrider right away. And he was so accustomed to slipping quietly around while avoiding any unnecessary attention that he was able to steer clear of Drag Strip.

That wasn’t part of his plan, but then again, neither was feeling… odd… about the whole thing. Breakdown had expected the assignment to play out like a stratagem against a military target. He hadn’t bargained on Drag Strip helping him clean the storage bay, or willingly following his instructions on setting up the trap above Dead End’s door. To his surprise, Breakdown realized he was starting to feel almost friendly towards Drag Strip.

That hadn’t even struck him as a likely possibility. Drag Strip had been abrasive and attention-seeking from the moment of their creation, and Breakdown, nervous and shy even then, was his polar opposite. With so little in common, the two of them had nothing to do with each other even before the Stunticons’ first defeat, when Drag Strip had decided that he would prefer to practice alone or with other ‘cons.

At that point, Breakdown had mentally written him off as a traitor to the team. And while he wasn’t going to mete out any more punishment after what Motormaster had done – he wasn’t naturally cruel – he also hadn’t expected to see anything in Drag Strip beyond the fact that he was another Stunticon, and therefore someone to put up with despite his faults. It hadn’t occurred to him that Drag Strip might have a sense of friendship or humor.

Knowing that made him feel strange in a way he’d never experienced before. It was one thing to calmly calculate a campaign against a target, but doing so against a teammate who had helped him with both work and mischief seemed somehow low. And he couldn’t help thinking of Drag Strip’s arrogance and attitude as forcefields of another kind, mental defense mechanisms that were so thick that no one could see what they hid.

 _But what can I do?_ he thought. He couldn't call the whole thing off now. _If I stop, Drag Strip will think I’m no longer interested and he’ll go back into his shell again. And what will Dead End and Wildrider say? That I was scared. That I lost my nerve._ He couldn’t let that happen.

 _All right, then, let’s move right on to Phase 7 and get this over with._ They had a mission, and whatever the aftermath of that was, he use it to complete his plan. At least he was confident about that part of it. By then he had interfaced often enough with Dead End and Wildrider that he felt sure he could give Drag Strip a good time as well (though for some reason the human expression “taking one for the team” kept coming to mind).

They gathered in Motormaster’s quarters for their pre-mission briefing. Breakdown’s senses were always most honed at such times, so he could tell that Drag Strip, while as quiet as before, wasn’t quite as withdrawn. In the gestalt link that functioned even when they weren’t physically merged, there was a hint of his presence, a flicker of determination. But it blew out like a flame when they were all in Motormaster’s room.

Breakdown thought their briefing had something to do with that. Motormaster was very explicit on what would happen if they failed, and he stared down at all four of them with a look that made Breakdown want to cringe. When they turned to leave, Breakdown caught a glimpse of him in the polished surface of the door. He was still watching them with optics that felt as though they were drilling purple holes into Breakdown’s back, although there might have been the faintest touch of concern when his gaze rested on Drag Strip. Then Breakdown realized that that was a distorted effect caused by the door’s surface. He pushed it out of his mind and tried to focus on the mission.

To his relief, they got through it without having to merge. It wasn’t easy to keep secrets in the moments when their minds blended into one, though Menasor’s own consciousness was usually a seething chaos where individual thoughts could go unnoticed. Still, his plan wasn’t an individual thought, since three of them were in on it.

The mission was an energon raid which Dead End prophesied gloomily would get them all killed, either when the spoils of war exploded or when the Autobots destroyed them. But although the Autobots did arrive, they set out after Motormaster in force, since they had caught a glimpse of pink glowing cubes being piled into his trailer. Breakdown hoped they would have a chance to find out that the cubes contained a luminous compound provided by Mixmaster.

The real energon was in his, Dead End’s and Wildrider’s trunks and passenger compartments, and since they were faster and more maneuverable, they paired up and raced back to where Astrotrain was waiting to transport them back to the base. Wildrider lost half of his energon along the way – mysteriously stolen by an Autobot somehow* – but they still returned with enough to please Megatron and to have an impromptu celebration later on that day.

Wildrider set up speakers in the now-clean storage bay and the walls thudded with vibrations that made Dead End wonder aloud if they would collapse under the sonic assault and let the ocean rush in to drown them all. Wildrider replied that if that was going to happen, he would get good and over-intoxicated so he didn’t feel it, then yelled at Long Haul to toss him a cube.

“Or better yet, carry the whole lot over here!” he shouted, then ducked as something was flung at his head.

That was all Breakdown saw from his vantage position on the steps, and all he really wanted to see. If it had been a Stunticon party, he would have joined in happily, but that wasn’t the case. Mixmaster had to be there, since he’d played a part in the raid’s success, which meant the other Constructicons came as well. _Nope,_ Breakdown thought and retreated. 

There was a clang of metal against metal and he turned quickly, only to realize he had bumped into Drag Strip, who looked equally startled. "Sorry,” Breakdown said. “I was just going… uh…” _Can’t say “to my quarters”, that’s for later._ “To our common room. I stashed a little energon there.”

“Motormaster’s in his quarters,” Drag Strip said after an awkward moment of silence. “Turns out if you get any of that pink stuff on your armor, it doesn’t wash off.”

Breakdown grinned, and after sharing that joke it was easy to extend an invitation. “Want to grab one of those cubes with me?” he said.

Drag Strip glanced at the stairs and then looked back. It was a quick movement, but Breakdown caught it and knew Drag Strip would have liked to join the party but couldn’t. _Because he wants to be with me or because he knows he’s not exactly wanted there? Maybe both._

“Sure,” Drag Strip said, and transformed. He was at the common room first, but Breakdown arrived soon afterward and took two cubes out from where he had hidden them under the couch. He handed one to Drag Strip, who sat on the arm of the couch closest to the door and drained it in few swallows.

 _This is it,_ Breakdown thought as he finished his own cube. _This is the point of no return._ “I’m done,” he said, taking both empty cubes in one hand and subspacing them. “You can go join the party if you like.”

Drag Strip’s uncertainty showed clearly on his face. _He doesn’t know if that’s me being nice or me telling him to get lost,_ Breakdown thought, and reached out quickly. His fingers closed around Drag Strip’s hand but there was no need to pull Drag Strip up; he was on his feet in an instant. Breakdown didn’t know if it was the effects of the energon or the success of the raid, but his circuits tingled and a warmth ran through his fuel lines.

That time, he didn’t need to make the first move. He only looked at Drag Strip, letting his willingness and eagerness flow through the gestalt link. There was no answering response, but after a moment Drag Strip leaned forward and kissed him.

The touch was unsure, poised to draw back. Breakdown had been kissed many times before, but none of the other Stunticons lacked any confidence in their berth skills, while Drag Strip obviously did. An intuition whispered a wordless warning in the back of Breakdown’s mind, but he had gone too far now.

He parted his lips. Drag Strip hesitated again, then deepened the kiss a little, his glossa barely slipping past Breakdown’s lips. Breakdown met it with his own in a touch that made Drag Strip shiver, then allowed him to press in further, tasting and exploring. The taste of energon was warm and intoxicating, but the taste of desire was raw and unfamiliar and compelling, and for the first time he wasn’t sure how much of it was his and how much was Drag Strip’s.

Breakdown broke the kiss, then touched the backs of his fingers to Drag Strip’s cheek, drawing them gently down the smooth metal. “I’ll be in my room,” he whispered and slipped out. His own footfalls, soft though they were, seemed to echo in the empty corridor as he crossed it.

The door closed behind him and he made himself as comfortable as he could on the berth. Then he picked up a magazine and waited, almost as much on edge as he had been just before the raid.

He was expecting a knock, but there wasn’t one. Instead, Drag Strip’s low deep voice, muffled by the door, said, “Breakdown?”

Breakdown realized he was holding the magazine upside down, and reversed it hastily. _Here goes nothing,_ he thought. “Come in."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Wildrider's post-raid adventure is told [here](http://www.fanfiction.net/s/5215903/14/Speed_Demons) ("Smooth Moves", a story I wrote for the "Horny" prompt of the 28 meme).


	5. Learning the Truth

The door slid open and Drag Strip stepped in as if the floor had been covered with spike-strips. He stood just inside the door, and when that slid closed again the line of his shoulders tensed.

For the first time it occurred to Breakdown that his plan had been so focused on getting Drag Strip to come to him willingly that he hadn’t thought through what he would do after that point. “Frag him all better” wasn’t exactly a detailed operating procedure. Still, thanks to Drag Strip’s inexperience, that didn’t matter; Breakdown could provide a much better time in the berth than what Drag Strip was used to.

So he set the magazine aside – no need to mark his place since he hadn’t managed to read a word of it – and got up. _Best not to ignore the element in the room. I’ll just address that issue now and be done with it._

“I’m not Motormaster,” he said. “We won’t do anything you don’t want to do.”

Drag Strip nodded jerkily, then looked past Breakdown at the berth. “Do you want me on that?”

“Uh, sure, if you like.”

Whatever Drag Strip felt at the moment, his movements were smooth and quick as he crossed the floor, though somehow Breakdown thought that was more due to resignation than being completely at ease. Drag Strip got on to the berth and lay face-down, his cheek pressed against the vented surface and his hands at his sides.

It was Breakdown’s turn to feel a brief but paralyzing lack of confidence; he had interfaced more times than he could count, but he couldn’t recall any of his partners facing away from him. And he had hoped to start with kissing. At least he and Drag Strip had done _that_ before.

_But I guess he just likes spoiler play,_ he thought. He sat down on the side of the berth and stroked the length of Drag Strip’s spoiler.

There was no response. Breakdown frowned, because his own spoiler was sensitive enough to touch that he had assumed it would be the same way for Drag Strip. Maybe he was doing it too lightly. He pressed down firmly, then slid his palm to the flexible joint where the spoiler met Drag Strip’s frame, fondling and kneading it.

Drag Strip’s hands fisted. What little could be seen of his face contorted, and Breakdown had a sudden but strong impression that he wasn’t enjoying it. _This isn’t going well,_ he thought uneasily and took his hand away. What had Wildrider compared this to? Being with a drone?

_I can’t do this alone,_ he thought and opened a radio channel. _“Dead End? Wildrider?”_ He stroked Drag Strip’s forearm in a gesture far more reassuring than seductive, though he wasn’t sure which of them he was reassuring. _“I, uh, I’ve got Drag Strip here in my berth, but I’m not sure what to do now.”_

_“What d’you mean, you’re not sure?”_ Wildrider said. _“You mean you haven’t done it before either?”_

_“Don’t be a moron!”_ Breakdown remembered, too late, that Wildrider and Dead End were at a party where the energon was flowing freely. _“You and I ‘faced just two days ago!”_

_“We did? I don’t remember that.”_

Dead End snickered. _“I’m not sure whether that’s a greater insult to_ your _memory, Wildrider, or to_ your _expertise in the berth, Breakdown._ ”

_Are they both out of it?_ Breakdown wondered in despair. _“You’ve got to help me! I tried some spoiler play but I don’t think Drag Strip liked it, so what else can I do?”_

_“Hmm,”_ Dead End said. _“I have a suggestion, but I’m not sure if it will help. I mean, you’ve been doing so well--”_

_“No, no, I’m sure your suggestion will help! What is it?”_

_“There should be a sealed, non-transformation seam starting at the center of Drag Strip’s spoiler and extending down for about fifteen inches, perhaps a little more. There’s a sensor node at its other end. See it?”_

_“Yes,”_ Breakdown said, relieved. _“So I should rub that?”_

_“No. For the best effect, you need to press down as hard as you can with one thumb. And do it_ sharply.”

_“Are you sure about that?”_ Breakdown said doubtfully. He felt behind him, to see if he had a similar sensor cluster that would respond to that kind of pressure, but he couldn’t reach so far.

_“Always turns my ignition key,”_ Wildrider said. _“Go on!”_

_“Well… okay. I’ll try it.”_

He jammed his thumb down hard on the sensor node.

Drag Strip yelled, arching so convulsively that he nearly fell off the berth. “What the…” He scrambled up, twisting around so that he could face Breakdown. “What the frag was that for?”

Breakdown stared at him speechlessly, his mouth half open. He knew he was trying to articulate sounds, but nothing seemed to be coming out of his vocalizer.

A lot was coming through over his radio, though. Wildrider had gone off into a burst of laughter, but even over that he heard Dead End’s smug comment. _“Serves you right. Did you think I wouldn’t know who was responsible for that stupid trick with the bucket? I had to reapply my polish--”_

“You backstabbing fragger!” Breakdown snapped.

He only realized a moment later that he had said that aloud, rather than transmitting it. Drag Strip’s expression went from angry to utterly livid, and his optics burned behind his visor.

“What did you just call me?” he said. His voice was so soft that Breakdown drew back, only to find the wall behind his shoulders.

“I wasn’t talking to you,” he said desperately. “I meant that for Dead End!”

“What do you mean, Dead…” The momentary confusion in Drag Strip’s voice suddenly vanished. “You were talking to him on the radio. You were talking to all of them.”

“I--” Breakdown began, but it was too late, and the frequency they had used was a common one. Drag Strip immediately accessed the channel, where Wildrider was making a gasping recovery from his spate of hilarity.

_“Oh, that was great!”_ he said, still chuckling. _“I’ll bet it made Drag Strip squeak. Wish I’d--”_

_“I’ll make_ you _squeak when I get my hands on you!”_ Drag Strip snarled. _“On all of you stupid piles of slag! This was just one of Breakdown’s little schemes, wasn’t it?”_

Breakdown tried to interrupt, to explain, but it was no use; Drag Strip’s rage was too intense. “Shut up! You were just stringing me along, you lying sack of roadkill! What, did you get so bored with the farce that you couldn’t think of a better way to end it than poking me in the back?” He switched to the common channel again. _“And the rest of you were in on it all along, laughing at me! What did you do, bet on when I’d give in?”_

_“Yup,”_ Wildrider said happily. _“I won.”_

_“Shut up!”_ Breakdown said, but it was too late. Shock wiped out even the anger on Drag Strip’s face; evidently, he’d meant that last accusation as sarcasm, not realizing that it would be only too true.

He cut the radio transmission. And before Breakdown could react, he drew his gun.


	6. Aiming a Gun

In all his life, Breakdown had never looked into the muzzle of another Stunticon’s gun.

His team tussled frequently, of course, and he had been on the receiving end of Motormaster’s temper more than once. But none of them drew their weapons on each other – for the simple reason that their weapons were all deadly. Many of the Autobots carried guns that could incapacitate an enemy. The Stunticons had been designed to kill their enemies.

So for a moment his vocalizer locked up and his mind went blank as he stared at the gun pointed at him.

 _“Breakdown?”_ a voice said over his radio. Either Dead End or Wildrider; Breakdown couldn’t use even the tiny fraction of processor capacity it would have taken to check the source of the transmission and the voice itself seemed distant, like someone on the other side of a slab of steel. _“Breakdown, are you all right?”_

_If I don’t reply, they’ll be up here to see what happened. Then I’ll never be able to reach Drag Strip._

_“I’m fine,”_ Breakdown replied, and cut the comm. This had been his plan, and he’d only run into trouble when he’d stupidly accepted Dead End’s “help”. Even though he no longer had a calculated route over unknown terrain, he was still in charge and he could still handle things. 

So he raised his hands slowly, palms outward. “Yes,” he said. “This was a plan of mine, except for, uh, the part at the end. I wasn’t sure what to do, because I like having my spoiler rubbed but you don’t. So I commed Dead End and he told me to poke you in the back. I didn’t know he was paying us back for the trick we played on him.”

“And they bet on when I’d fall for the trick you played on me?”

 _I didn’t think of it that way._ Breakdown nodded.

A raw light smoldered behind Drag Strip’s visor. “Is Motormaster in on it too?”

“No.” Breakdown fought to keep his engine at an idle, to control his instinctive reaction to let it rev so that its destructive vibrations would deal with whatever threatened him.

The rigid lines of Drag Strip’s arms relaxed fractionally, though the gun was still pointed at Breakdown’s face. Air rasped through his intakes, and when he spoke, Breakdown could hear the effort behind the single word.

“Why?” he said.

What surprised Breakdown was how easily and simply the truth came to mind. If he had been interrogated by an Autobot, especially with a gun in his face, he would have lied with as much ease and fluency as he could muster; even being questioned by another Decepticon wouldn’t have had the same effect. But Drag Strip was another Stunticon. Breakdown couldn’t seriously entertain the thought of lying to him.

“We saw what happened after Motormaster, uh, punished you,” he said. “You were, well, different and we still weren’t a team. So Dead End said we should persecute you… no, no, persuade you that we weren’t so bad and, uh, this seemed like the best way.”

Drag Strip looked incredulous. “It seemed best to pretend to be interested in me? And not just on the one occasion but for, what, weeks? Is that the kind of fragging teamwork you have in mind?”

The gun was still pointed at Breakdown’s face and Drag Strip continued speaking before he could answer any of the questions. “And you were never going to tell me the truth, were you? You would have just strung me along and fragged my paint off without wanting anything to do with me.”

Breakdown remembered the moment in the common room, when he had felt a moment of brief but real desire. “No, I really wanted to--”

“Yeah, right,” Drag Strip said. “You won’t stop lying even when you’ve got a gun in your face. So what’s next? Shall we bond or do you just want to etch your name on my chestplate?”

“Please, Drag Strip, just hear me out,” Breakdown said desperately. He longed to ask Drag Strip to put the gun down, but that would call attention to the weapon and show he was afraid; maybe it would be a better idea to pretend that the gun wasn’t even there. “It’s true that this started out as a plan of mine, but I couldn’t think of any other way to get your attention. Would you have said yes if I’d just asked you to join us? If I’d been completely candy?”

There was no reply, which Breakdown could only hope was a sign that Drag Strip was finally listening to him. “This started out as a plan, but it didn’t stay that way, not after you helped me with the storage bay and with that trick on Dead End. I – I like you, and we want you to be part of our team.”

“Maybe you do, but _they_ don’t.” Drag Strip’s mouth twisted. “Those slaggers down in the storage bay, laughing at me.”

Dead End had never really laughed at anything, and wasn’t likely to start then, but it wasn’t the best time to point that out. “Wildrider might laugh but he misses you too. He said he preferred you being a je…” Breakdown realized what he had been about to say, and faked a burst of static from his vocalizer to cover it.

“Being a what?” Drag Strip said.

Breakdown decided to do a Dead End and pretend that last exchange had never occurred. “And Wildrider offered to try again after the first time the two of you nearly interfaced. He’s not so annoying once you get to…”

He trailed off as Drag Strip’s expression went blank. “Interfaced,” Drag Strip said. “Is that what you call it?”

“Uh…” Breakdown knew he had said the wrong thing. “Wasn’t it?”

“No,” Drag Strip said, still in a too-calm voice. “It was me lying there, trying not to move, trying not to feel anything at all while Wildrider did whatever he wanted. While _it_ happened all over again. Except that was all just an act too. He didn’t really want me either but he still put me through that again.”

His mouth went up at one corner as though he was trying to smile, but the sound he made was a gasp of laughter twisted out of all recognition, thick with bitterness. “The three of you… no, four of you, mustn’t forget Motormaster… were just playing with me all along. None of you gave a slag about how I felt. Well, that’s it. I can’t take any more of this.”

“Wait--” Breakdown knew that even Motormaster at his worst would never have killed him (though not out of any sense of mercy). But as he stared down the muzzle of Drag Strip’s gun, he had no idea what would happen next.

The febrile glow in Drag Strip’s optics dimmed to nothingness, but the warning light on the side of his gun lit up as he flicked the controls to their highest settings. “It’s over,” he said quietly.


	7. The other side of the story

Drag Strip flicked the controls on his gun up to their highest settings. At that intensity, the gravitational forces it produced wouldn’t just slam Breakdown into the floor; they would crush him into a flat disk of metal. 

And after that, Drag Strip would turn the gun on himself. He wasn’t staying to face more of what Motormaster considered punishment or what his other teammates considered friendship. Not that they would be likely to extend any more of it to him, thankfully.

The few seconds it took to die would be agonizing, but less painful than being betrayed and used by the other Stunticons. And there would be nothing more after that – no fear and no self-loathing. He would finally be at some semblance of peace.

His experience with Motormaster had left him shaken in a way he had never felt before, subdued and shamed, but he had tried his best to recover from it. In the days and rechargeless nights to come, he had told himself repeatedly that it had all been lies. _Motormaster was just trying to control me. I’m not really worthless, I’m not really useless to the team._

He said that silently, over and over again, until the words built a thin veneer over his fear and doubt. Knowing how unstable that façade was, though, he was careful not to step out of bounds again, and to his relief, Motormaster left him alone. But he couldn’t face his teammates either, not after the humiliation of being ground into the dust under Motormaster’s wheels, not after having his dream of self-sufficiency and recognition ripped away from him.

Except now he had no aspiration to work towards, and he felt empty inside. Being with the other Stunticons might have helped, but he couldn’t think of how to do that – after holding himself apart from them, how could he just walk in there and be part of their games or conversations? And what if they didn’t want him around? If they all considered themselves much more valuable to the gestalt than he was, they might just turn him away.

It was like racing in a circle, using up fuel without getting anywhere, and each day felt lonelier than the one before it. Finally he decided that he would have to find a way to join his teammates, somehow.

_What if I did something really spectacular?_ he thought. As part of the team, of course. Motormaster had hammered that much into him. _But if I could, I don’t know, pull off a mission as it’s about to fail or shoot some Aerialbot right through the laser-core, then they might…_ Maybe it was too much to hope that they might admire and respect him right away, but at least they would look at him as though he was worth something.

He felt a little better just imagining it. And that was when Wildrider thumped on his door.

Drag Strip’s plating hadn’t crawled at the prospect of interfacing with Wildrider – he knew, on some level deeper than thought, that Wildrider wouldn’t enjoy hurting him. But he felt utterly turned off, cold down to his core. The thought of being used like that was repugnant and yet he couldn’t refuse.

For all he knew, part of being a Stunticon was interfacing with teammates whenever they wanted. He might have said no before Motormaster’s little discipline session, but the thought of being dragged into Motormaster’s berth again because he hadn’t been fully functioning as part of the team was unbearable. Compared to that, submitting to Wildrider was nothing.

So he prepared to endure whatever was going to happen next. He thought of racing instead, trying to take his mind from what was being done to him and away to open spaces under the sun, the whir of wind and the road beneath his tires as he drove faster and faster, until no one could keep up with him and he was free.

To his mingled relief and worry, Wildrider stopped. Drag Strip wasn’t sure whether there would be repercussions, since he knew Wildrider hadn’t been satisfied in the same way Motormaster had been at the end of the experience. But over the course of the next few days no one said anything to him and he began to relax. He wished he could spend time with his teammates – they all seemed to enjoy themselves racing together or watching television in their spare time – but he would have been happy never to be touched again.

Then Breakdown kissed him.

Drag Strip was so startled that he couldn’t react right away. Even then, he recovered in the next moment – he still had the fastest reflexes of any Stunticon – but the kiss was over by then and Breakdown had gone to get some energon. Drag Strip wondered for a moment if that had actually happened. He was used to unpredictability and insanity… but from Wildrider, not Breakdown.

He had no idea why Breakdown had kissed him. It couldn’t have been to punish him, because he didn’t feel at all hurt, just puzzled. For a fleeting instant he wondered if Breakdown was interested in him at all, but he dismissed the possibility. Breakdown wouldn’t have walked away if that was the case.

So he put it all out of his mind until the second kiss, and that time he could have pulled away if he had wanted to. Except there was nothing violent or dominating about the kiss. He didn’t feel invaded, though his lip plating tingled from the warmth of Breakdown’s mouth.

Before he had time to decide what to do – _Should I respond? Should I open my mouth? What does he_ want? – Breakdown was gone again. Drag Strip thought momentarily of going after him. He could have caught up without much effort even if Breakdown had transformed and hit maximum velocity, but what would he do then? Ask why Breakdown had kissed him? Make it seem like a big deal?

There were more rechargeless nights after that. Except now, rather than thinking about Motormaster, he thought about Breakdown.

When Breakdown kissed him for the third time, he couldn’t stop himself from parting his lips, even though he hoped Breakdown wouldn’t push into his mouth. He knew that after Motormaster, nothing any of his other teammates did should hurt or disgust him, but he also knew that if Breakdown went too far he would close off again, his mind distant while his frame was being used. And there was something strangely… nice… about being kissed when he liked and wanted it.

Then Breakdown pulled away again. Just when the contact would have crossed over from being gentle to being intimate, from pleasant to pleasurable, he ended it. Drag Strip felt frustrated. He could understand not going further in public, when they were on a mission, but why didn’t Breakdown tell him they would continue it later, in private?

_Maybe he doesn’t really want me._ All his self-doubt resurfaced at once as he stood on the hill watching Breakdown transform. _He’s so sleek and beautiful, why should he want me? Or maybe he does and I didn’t respond in time and now he thinks I’m not interested._ He didn’t know what to do or say.

Then he had the bright idea of helping to clean the storage bay, though as it turned out he felt horribly self-conscious being alone with Breakdown. And he had no idea what to talk about, so they worked in a silence that made him even more embarrassed.

He took his feelings out on the wall and did a good job of scrubbing it (it looked even cleaner than Breakdown’s side of the bay, he decided), and when they were done Breakdown kissed him again – really kissed him, that time. A hot shiver ran through Drag Strip’s circuits and made him gasp. He hadn’t known that a single kiss could do so much, hadn’t realized that the slow suckling contact would be something he could enjoy rather than endure. Suddenly he wanted to be kissed like that again, to feel Breakdown’s mouth on his throat, licking--

He could have ripped out his radio when Dead End’s message came through. And he could willingly have done the same to Dead End’s when it turned out to be some stupid prank, though he liked Breakdown’s idea of retaliation. By then neither of them were turned on any longer, but Drag Strip didn’t mind. They were still working together, exchanging a conspiratorial grin as they set up the trap – he couldn’t remember the last time he had smiled. He’d never known what it was like to have a friend, and that felt good too.

_Things will work out,_ he thought. _Interfacing won’t be so bad after this._

And once that happened, he would be one step closer to being part of the team. It would be far easier to stroll into the Stunticon common room with Breakdown than to walk in all by himself.

Then had come their most recent mission.

The insecurity Drag Strip tried to suppress (or at least hide) rose up in full force, partly because – as a racecar – he didn’t have a trunk to hide any energon cubes in. And his passenger compartment was open, so that wasn’t an option either. To make matters both better and worse, he had been paired up with Breakdown, but for some reason Breakdown wasn’t saying very much to him.

_Did I do something wrong? Doesn’t he like me any more?_ With an effort, Drag Strip pushed all that out of his mind and focused on his role in the assignment – even if he couldn’t carry anything, he could at least stay with and protect Breakdown. So he did that until they reached Astrotrain and were safely back in the base, which was when he heard about the party.

He thought of going, because he would have loved to be the center of attention. But then Breakdown bumped into him on the steps, and Drag Strip couldn’t suppress the little jolt of eagerness he felt when Breakdown invited him to the common room for some energon.

Though that was nothing compared to the pleasure that surged through him as he returned the kiss. The desire he had felt previously turned to a raw need that left him trembling. When Breakdown drew away and said he would be in his room, Drag Strip didn’t even hesitate for long; his doubts disappeared under the realization that Breakdown wouldn’t force him at all.

The anticipation was wonderful right up till the moment he stepped into Breakdown’s room and saw the berth. That brought back an unpleasant memory or two. He had never been turned off by Breakdown’s kisses because they had so little to do with interfacing; berths, on the other hand, definitely did. Still, he had driven too far to turn around.

So he got on the berth in what he supposed was the expected position, though he regretted it the moment Breakdown touched his spoiler exactly as Motormaster had done. _It’s all right,_ he thought. _Breakdown likes me, so it will be all right. Maybe he’ll kiss me again--_

That was when Breakdown jabbed him hard, right in the small of his back.

Drag Strip’s confusion gave way to understanding soon enough. _So much for Motormaster lying when he said that none of my teammates would want anything to do with me. It was the truth. They couldn’t care less, and they don’t even want me to interface with. This was all just a big performance, Breakdown’s most elaborate plan to date. I thought he liked me, I thought he found me attractive, I thought…_

His rage had died down into bitterness by then, and even that subsided under an exhaustion born of too many restless nights and tense, unsure days. Suddenly he couldn’t bear any more of it, of being toyed with and used for other mechs’ purposes. _I can fire and it will all be over._ He willed himself to pull the trigger.


	8. Forming the Link

_Just fire,_ Drag Strip thought, keeping the gun aimed at Breakdown’s face. _Just fire!_

His clasped hands didn’t shake and his arms were just as steady, but he was a seething, churning mess inside. And Breakdown kept looking at him steadily, not begging for mercy or even fighting back. Drag Strip found himself remembering how Breakdown had complimented him, shared the energon cache with him, helped him play a trick on Dead End. No one had ever done that for him before, making him feel accepted and wanted for the first time.

_But it was all a lie to lure me into his berth. So get this over with!_

He couldn’t. He clenched his jaws and tried to force himself to pull the trigger, but it didn’t work.

_I can’t even kill someone who lied to me and hurt me,_ he thought in sudden disgust. _I’m no fragging use even to myself._

He turned the gun, pointing it at his chestplate, and the paralysis in his fingers was gone. There was no more hesitation or doubt. He felt his forcefield power down as if of its own accord and his body slacken in acceptance of what would happen next. His finger tightened on the trigger.

“No!” Breakdown flung himself forward and caught the gun, pulling it to one side. The blast struck the wall to Drag Strip’s right and metal screamed as it bent in the grip of gravitational forces. Breakdown grabbed the gun’s muzzle in one hand and the grip in another, twisting hard to wrench it free of Drag Strip’s fingers.

But when it came to fights, even with other Stunticons, Drag Strip was on familiar terrain. Breakdown’s maneuver had brought him close enough to be headbutted, so that was what Drag Strip did. The front of his helm smashed into Breakdown’s forehead, rocking him back, and Drag Strip’s own vision flickered with static from the force of the blow.

But Breakdown’s grip on the gun had slipped. Drag Strip yanked it free and hit out with one hand. The punch was off-center, since he still couldn’t see clearly, and Breakdown twisted away from it, tumbling off the berth. He was transforming even before he hit the floor, and the door slid open. His engine revved as he raced towards it. 

Drag Strip readjusted the controls and fired. The ray hit Breakdown and he shot upwards as if the ceiling had turned to an electromagnet. There was a loud clang of metal on metal as his roof hit the top of the room, and his wheels whirred as they spun rapidly and helplessly in midair.

“Oh look, it’s Breakdown the blimp,” Drag Strip said, savoring the moment. Even if he couldn’t actually kill Breakdown, he could enjoy a little well-deserved revenge. “Hey, shall I let you down hard so you can see what that feels like?”

He set the controls to have the opposite effect so that Breakdown would suddenly became nine times as heavy and then fall. Maybe that would shake his windows loose from their frames. “Hope your shock absorbers can take--”

Breakdown’s engine shrieked in a sharp irregular vibration, like two edges of jagged metal scraping together. Drag Strip’s systems stuttered. Circuits fritzed randomly and the gun fell from his fingers, landing on the floor.

He tried to reach for it, then overbalanced as the gears in one leg refused to respond. He crashed down to the floor just as one of the lights in the room flickered and went out. In the suddenly dimmer illumination, impending warnings of short circuits and systems failures flashed an even brighter red in his display as the debilitating vibrations went on.

“Stop doing that!” he shouted.

“Get me down from here then!” Breakdown yelled back.

Drag Strip fumbled for his gun with his one good hand, managing to reset the controls more by luck than practice. He aimed with trembling fingers and managed to fire just before the gun slipped from his grip again. Breakdown landed with a heavy thump and transformed as the vibrations finally stopped.

_Thank Primus for that._ Too tired to move just yet, Drag Strip rested his cheek against the floor and waited until the warnings disappeared one by one. Then, as Breakdown trudged over to him, he levered himself up on an elbow and reached for his fallen gun.

Breakdown stooped, picked the gun up and subspaced it.

For a moment Drag Strip was so startled that he couldn’t react. He had never expected to be disarmed by another Stunticon, and especially not so easily. He could have understood it happening during the heat of a fight, but not in the aftermath of one, when he was only a second or two away from retrieving the weapon himself.

And then the world turned red. _Isn’t that what Breakdown’s done all along, caught me unprepared and slipped under my guard? The lying, fragging--_

Shock and fury wiped out his weariness. Drag Strip threw himself forward with an inarticulate roar, his weight crashing into Breakdown and knocking him flat. He could barely speak, much less see, so it took him a few moments to realize that his fists were crashing into a forcefield. He kept punching it anyway, thinking – insofar as he was capable of thought – that it might come down eventually from the effort, but the only change was that an imminent-damage warning popped up in his own HUD. Then he tried to lock his fingers around Breakdown’s throat, only to be just as frustrated.

Finally he sat back, panting through his intakes, his hands throbbing from the exertion of landing blows that didn’t show much of an effect as Breakdown sat up slowly. _I can’t even fragging hit him!_ He felt powerless all over again.

“Give me my gun back,” he managed to say.

Breakdown shook his head. “Drag Strip, I’m sorry, but I can’t--”

“You can’t what, Motormaster? Let me have a choice about anything?”

Subdermal cables tightened along Breakdown’s jaws, but his voice was low and steady. “Not if you’re making the wrong choice.”

“It’s not the wrong choice, you self-righteous slagger,” Drag Strip said, wondering if there was any way to empty someone else’s subspace compartments. “And even if it was, it’s still mine to make. Now give me my gun back!” He could deactivate himself quite well without the weapon, but it was his gun. He’d come online with that in hand, and it was the first possession he had ever owned. For that matter, it was the only thing he had ever owned.

“Drag Strip, if you kill yourself, you’ll destroy our gestalt! Do you know what a broken link will do to us?”

_It’ll hurt you?_ Drag Strip felt a dark, vicious satisfaction that repelled him but drew him at the same time.

“No,” he said, trying for an innocent expression and tilting his head a little to one side. “What will it do?”

Optics narrowed to violet slivers, and Drag Strip had the impression that, for all his verbal slipups, Breakdown wasn’t exactly stupid. “Have you ever felt the link?” he said. “When we’re not combining, I mean.”

Drag Strip hated combining. His body would reshape itself and thud smoothly into place, the correct circuits and connections forming in seconds. His mind, on the other hand, would reel with the impact of Wildrider’s purposeless lunacy, Dead End’s apathy, Breakdown’s fear and Motormaster’s cold cruelty sweeping over everything like a choking wave.

That never lasted for long before Menasor took over, but Drag Strip tried not to think about Menasor if he could help it. Their combined form was even more disturbing than Motormaster.

_At least I can still exist at the same time Motormaster does. But when Menasor’s active, I’m not._ When Menasor’s optics glowed with life, Drag Strip’s conscious mind sank down into a deep subliminal level where the combined form could access his memories and skills (but so far had thankfully not done). From that level he could sense the ugly patchwork personality of the huge gestalt, the seething chaos that drove Menasor onward.

Part of that was himself, of course, so he had to wait for their combined form to fragment so that he could be a single separate entity again. And since patient waiting was not exactly Drag Strip’s strong point, he preferred to let his conscious mind stay in a half-dreaming twilight state until Menasor split apart again. He didn’t get to see whatever battle the gestalt was fighting, but he could live with that. 

“It’s disgusting enough sensing the rest of you when we merge,” he said. “What makes you think I’d do it for any other reason?”

The corner of Breakdown’s mouth curled up in a way that made Drag Strip long to put a fist through it. “So you haven’t?”

“No! Now if you’re keeping my gun, I want something of yours in return. Transmission or right arm, take your pick.”

“I’ll give it back if you link with me.”

“If I what?” Drag Strip could hardly believe what he had just heard. “So it wasn’t enough for you to paw my chassis, you want to frag around in my mind too?”

“Oh, don’t be a drummer queen,” Breakdown said, getting up. “And you were going to kill yourself, right? Let me show you one last thing, and then you can go to your room and watch television or shoot yourself.”

_I don’t have a television,_ Drag Strip thought. “After what you’ve done, you’ve got some fragging nerve to ask me anything,” he said, fighting to keep the rage in his voice down to a taut edge. “So let me put this in a way you might be able to understand. I hate you. I hate all of you slaggers, but you most of all. I wouldn’t leak on you if you were on fire. Got it?” He rose and started to walk out.

“Here.” Breakdown’s voice was subdued.

Drag Strip glanced down at him out of sheer reflex and saw that Breakdown was holding out his gun. He stopped in his tracks.

“You can have it back,” Breakdown said. There was no strain in his voice, only a tired resignation, and the gun lay on the open palm he raised to Drag Strip. “You’re right. It’s your choice. I shouldn’t have tried to trick you into doing anything.”

Drag Strip stared at him. With Breakdown, he always had moments when his processors seemed to whine to a stop as he tried to make sense of what had just been said, and that plus the offered gun made him go blank for a moment. Breakdown seemed to take his silence for suspicion.

“You can take it,” he said, and held the gun out. “And you can leave if you like. And… I’m sorry.”

There seemed to be nothing Drag Strip could say in reply to that, so he snatched his gun back, expecting some trick which never came. The familiar weight of the weapon felt good, and he subspaced it, then turned to leave. At the door, he hesitated and glanced back.

Breakdown hadn’t moved, and he looked as tired as Drag Strip had felt a few moments before. _He knows he’s lost,_ Drag Strip thought. _Then why don’t I feel like I’ve won?_

“All right,” he heard someone say, in a voice so quiet he didn’t recognize it as his own for a moment.

Breakdown looked up, clearly surprised.

Drag Strip hesitated again, then shrugged inwardly; if his opponent had given in and conceded, that meant he had won. So he wasn’t afraid of anything Breakdown could do. In fact, it was more like the other way around – Breakdown had clearly been afraid of _him_ , hence the forcefield and the disarming. This was Breakdown's last-ditch effort to meet him on any kind of common ground.

“Go on,” he said, folding his arms. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

He had no idea what to expect or do, but before he could even think how to act in an experienced and casual way, a whisper of warmth brushed his mind. Startled, he took a step back, but the sensation didn’t change. He knew it was Breakdown, but he couldn’t have said how he knew.

_The gestalt link,_ he thought. _This is it._

A spark of humor glowed in the link – the emotional equivalent of _Finally figured it out, huh?_ Then that vanished into the steady wash of feeling. Drag Strip felt torn between curiosity and wariness, because the last thing he needed was to be vulnerable again, especially before another Stunticon. Before Breakdown, most of all.

_“Then don’t be.”_ The reply came through on his radio, and startled him all over again before he realized it was Breakdown. _“Just let me show you.”_

_Show me what?_ Drag Strip wondered. _Just because you can use a gestalt bond to reassure me doesn’t mean that--_

The gentle tug on his mind became a little firmer. Not as if the merging programs were pulling him down into storage until Menasor was done with his body, but more as though something was drawing him up on to a higher level of the ship. It felt oddly as though he’d used the lowest setting of his gun on himself, negating gravity but in a way that wouldn’t hurt him. And the room itself was changing around him, dimming and blurring, losing all definition.

A white and blue glow sprang out from it, brilliant as a gas flame but flickering as such a flame would have done in a strong wind. _Breakdown,_ Drag Strip knew at once. And he knew too that at such a depth of the gestalt bond, what he would sense and see were minds and personalities, rather than physical bodies. Or anything physical, for that matter.

Wildrider and Dead End were far from him, in a storage bay on a lower level of the ship, but that didn’t matter. When he thought of them, he saw them as well. There was the firework flare of whatever passed for Wildrider’s mind, spiraling like a surge of music. The sudden weight that filled the gestalt link was Dead End, cool and contemplative.

And the darkness that overshadowed it all was Motormaster.

Drag Strip felt all his internal components tighten in a reflex he couldn’t control. He could sense Motormaster as easily as if they were merged, could feel viciousness and barely-restrained brutality as cold as claws poised to sink into his mind. For a moment he nearly pulled free of the link.

Only the presence of the other Stunticons stopped him, the fact that he couldn’t show fear in front of them. He was tougher than that. He wasn't going to back down where they could… wait a minute, how did they manage to even stay sane when they could feel Motormaster so intimately? Obviously Wildrider was the exception to that. But how in the world did Breakdown, who was afraid of the walls watching him, endure Motormaster’s mental presence in the link?

Drag Strip had to find out, and there was only one way to do so. Afraid though he was, the thought of being further humiliated by showing that fear was worse. Jaws clenched, everything inside him braced for the impact, he let walls and firewalls down. He allowed himself to fall into the link.

A ray of light burned in the darkness, thin and bright as a strip of gold. _That’s me,_ Drag Strip thought in mingled pleasure and dread. He waited for the darkness to close in on his mind, or for the other Stunticons to outshine him, but neither happened.

And then, for the first time, he understood. He belonged in that link. Even when there was danger in it (and there always would be, from Wildrider’s madness, Breakdown’s instability and Motormaster’s ruthlessness) there was safety too. Motormaster’s brooding presence surrounded them like an unbreakable barrier that corralled them in and kept them prisoners, but kept everything else at bay as well. The flip side of Wildrider’s manic nature was a genuine love of life, something Drag Strip had never really felt, and Dead End was the brakes of the vehicle that the five of them formed, slowing them down when they might have plummeted out of control.

_Where do I fit in?_ Drag Strip wondered – not with fear that he wouldn’t do so, but only curiosity and sudden interest. A new understanding settled into place as easily as a gestalt component sliding into position, and showed him. He was the team’s determination and drive, the part that dreamed of their victory and would not let them lose.

Of course, there was a reverse side as well – his obsession and insecurity and arrogance would factor into the link, would always be a risk, but he knew now that the Stunticons shored up each other’s weaknesses. They understood each other in a way that only a gestalt ever could. Sometimes that made them hate each other all the more, heightening their contempt and revulsion.

But sometimes it overcame pain and rage and fear instead. Sometimes it made things better.

_“You thought that,”_ Drag Strip said over his radio, disassociating from the link. He was a little disoriented to realize he was still in Breakdown’s room, that he hadn’t moved from the spot. He felt as though he had been in the link for hours, but when he checked his internal chronometer he realized it had taken less than a minute.

Breakdown nodded, a hopeful look in his optics. “You know I was telling the truth now, don’t you? I wasn’t faking it, and I’d really like it if you, well, stayed.”

The feeling of being wanted and desired – especially in the diffident, almost shy way Breakdown put it – was so irresistible that Drag Strip nearly gave in. The effects of the link were slowly fading, though, and his usual self-doubt and suspicion began to reassert itself.

“No. I don’t want a foursome.” He felt the mental walls start to go up again, crushing his longing and desire beneath them. “Dead End and Wildrider are still a couple of vile slaggers.”

Breakdown sighed, rubbing the heel of one hand between his optics. “They’re not, but never mind. It won’t be a foursome. I don’t usually keep radio channels open when I interface, because in case you haven’t noticed, I like my privacy.”

Drag Strip didn’t know what to say in response to that. He tried to think of some other objection, some way he could withdraw from the battlefield while still keeping his dignity intact, and Breakdown took advantage of the momentary silence to cross the distance between them. Drag Strip tensed at once, but Breakdown only stopped within arm’s-length of him. In the dimmed light, his optics looked an even deeper shade of violet, and his voice was lower and quieter too.

“Tell me what you want me to do now,” he said.

It was both a confident order and a submissive seduction, and Drag Strip’s response came before he could even think about it. “Kiss me,” he whispered.

Breakdown brought a hand up, cupping his jaw, and obeyed.


	9. Closing the Door

Drag Strip let himself enjoy the feel of Breakdown’s mouth on his, closed lips warming and caressing his own, but Breakdown didn’t need to deepen the kiss. Drag Strip did that, opening for him, lips parting willingly as Breakdown pressed against him and his glossa pressed into Drag Strip’s mouth, tasting and searching. His engine purred, roughly.

Drag Strip felt his frame absorb that sound and slacken, the shared desire nearly sending him to his knees with its intensity. He clung to Breakdown as much for support as out of passion. His chassis felt as though it had turned fluid and was molding itself against Breakdown’s. He needed to be even closer, to be touched everywhere, to be held gently and pleasured hard; he tried to say all that but Breakdown’s mouth was still on his.

Then Breakdown broke the kiss, but Drag Strip still had no chance of speech when Breakdown kissed the side of his neck instead, sucking eagerly on the smooth metal. The words turned to a moan, and his legs gave way entirely. Breakdown lowered their bodies to the floor.

For the second time Drag Strip felt another Stunticon’s chassis press down on him, but Breakdown was nowhere near as heavy as Motormaster. And rather than feeling pinned down and crushed, he liked the warm solid feeling of Breakdown’s frame on his, covering him.

Clumsily, not quite sure whether he was doing everything right, he raised his hands to stroke Breakdown’s shoulder struts and grille, though he forgot about being self-conscious when Breakdown kissed him again, so hungrily that his circuits seemed to turn to liquid heat. He tilted his head to fit their mouths more closely together, a low needy sound coming from the back of his throat.

Breakdown was much more poised. Drag Strip felt dark-blue hands move over his chassis – but they did so lightly rather than intimately, teasing him. Breakdown’s fingers followed the lines of his racing stripes, then drifted over the rest of his torso, barely brushing the surfaces of sensor nodes. Drag Strip shifted restlessly, trying to press into the exploring touches so that Breakdown would realize what he wanted and plunge into his circuitry. Somehow he couldn’t bring himself to _ask_ for it.

Breakdown only continued to play with him, though, nibbling at his throat before muffling the resulting moan with another kiss. He traced the edges of transformation seams, not going any further even when Drag Strip moved his limbs to widen the gaps. Drag Strip tried to return the caresses, but every now and then Breakdown would flick an external receptor in a way that made him gasp and cling on instead.

He needed more. He felt a heavy growing tightness inside him, an urgency that made him twist and squirm in a futile attempt to assuage the feeling, and he whimpered when Breakdown lifted his head.

“I’m going to touch your wheels,” Breakdown said, giving him a last quick kiss before drawing back.

The mere thought of having his wheel-wells fondled pushed Drag Strip even closer to the edge and he let Breakdown go, trembling in anticipation. Except, to his disappointment, Breakdown pulled away completely. He sat back on his feet and ran his hands over Drag Strip’s thighs, pressing his knees apart.

_Maybe he’s just trying to draw things out,_ Drag Strip thought, trying to ignore the frustration. He’d been so close. Having his knees touched wasn’t unpleasant, but it was hardly the same--

Breakdown moved to kneel between Drag Strip’s spread feet, and slipped his fingers into the much larger wheels at the ankles.

He traced the rims of the wheel-wells once, then probed deep. Warm fingers pressed firmly against receptors and Drag Strip screamed, his back arching as the knot inside him tightened unbearably and then released in a single shattering instant. Electricity crackled through his circuits in surge after surge, making his body jerk in hard involuntary spasms. Each fresh shock of the overload wrung another cry out of him, and his fingers clutched helplessly at the floor.

Breakdown threw himself across Drag Strip’s knees, holding them down so that he could continue to stroke Drag Strip’s wheel-wells, prolonging the pleasure for as long as he could. Drag Strip groaned as the last tremors thudded through him and finally faded, allowing him to lie still and strutless with exhaustion. As if from some distance, he heard the top-speed whir of cooling fans and the rasp of air through his intakes.

The warm, relaxed feeling was almost as good as the overload. Involuntarily, Drag Strip remembered his first interface, but there was hardly any comparison. And now that he knew how good it could feel when he wanted it, being used and hurt would be even more degrading, so he couldn’t help wishing it would never happen again with Motormaster. 

He knew it would, though. Not much choice about that.

But maybe the two sides of the same thing would balance each other out, as he had seen in the gestalt link. And that would help him handle it. Because if the others could deal with Motormaster, Drag Strip certainly could too. 

He felt Breakdown’s fingers leave his wheel-wells, making him twitch from even that touch, and then Breakdown’s weight shifted to cover him once more. Drag Strip wasn’t sure why he was doing that again, but he was too spent to care. Even his optics seemed to have unfocused a little during his overload, so he watched the ceiling as he recalibrated them, wondering for a moment why the room was so large before he remembered that he was on the floor.

Feeling a little less like a melted mass of hyper-receptive sensors, he turned his head and met Breakdown’s optics. “That was nice,” he managed to say.

Breakdown’s smile was both satisfied and wry. “Yes,” he said after a moment. “That was quick, too.”

_Sure,_ Drag Strip thought. _Of course it was. I’m the fastest._ He didn’t feel like having a conversation, though, especially when Breakdown leaned closer and nuzzled the side of his helm.

_Mmm._ Drag Strip turned his head to give Breakdown better access to his throat and found himself looking at the open door.

“Was that--” He looked back, but Breakdown only lifted his head and twitched one shoulder in a shrug.

“Yes, open all along,” he said. “But no one walked by. I’ll close it.”

No one might have walked by, but Drag Strip thought that if the other Stunticons had been in their rooms, they would all have heard him yelling his head off. Not that that mattered. They were part of a gestalt, and on a deep subliminal level, they might have felt it too.

Plus, he really liked the idea that interfacing with him had been so amazing an experience that it had made Breakdown – always conscious of security and privacy – forget to close the door.

“Nah, don’t bother,” he said, wriggling out from under Breakdown. “I’ll get it on my way out.”

“What?”

Drag Strip sat up, wondering if he’d made so much noise it had damaged Breakdown’s audials. “I’ll close it on my way out. You have a good recharge.”

“Uh, just a klik,” Breakdown said, optics narrowing a little. “It’s my turn now. You haven’t made me overload yet.”

“Oh.” It hadn’t occurred to Drag Strip that he was supposed to do that; he’d thought it somehow happened automatically for the other mech during interfacing. And he had been planning to go back to his room for some much-needed rest. “Couldn’t you do it yourself? I’m kind of tired.”

Breakdown stared at him without speaking, though his mouth was half open. “No,” he said after a long pause. “No, I won’t do it myself. I’m going to find Dead End. Just that voice sends shivers down my back strut, and he's amazing in the berth. But Wildrider’s even better out of it – he does things that most mechs don’t even dream of. Being with him is always the most neurotic experience.” He got to his feet, not even bothering to look down at Drag Strip. “Either one of them will make the ship take off for me--”

He started to walk away and Drag Strip caught his ankle. It happened so fast that Breakdown staggered and nearly fell; he stumbled away as Drag Strip released his grip, rolled up to his knees and stood in the same movement. In three strides Drag Strip was at the door and slammed it shut.

“I can do that too, only better,” he said. “C’mon. Let’s go.” He took Breakdown’s arm and tugged him over to the berth.

“No, you said you were tired--” Breakdown’s protest ended in an “oof!” as Drag Strip pushed him firmly in the midsection and he sat down on the berth. Drag Strip bent, scooped Breakdown’s legs up and plunked them down on the berth’s surface as well. Then he scrambled up and straddled Breakdown’s thighs, hoping fervently that he could do a good job. No, better than good – a superb, excellent job.

“Don’t worry,” he said, as much to reassure himself as Breakdown. He made himself smile confidently. “You’ll remember this night for the rest of your life.”

“I’m already going to remember this night for the rest of my life. But not for the same reason you have in mind.”

“Oh, shut up,” Drag Strip said, and leaned down to kiss him.


	10. Being the Best

The kiss felt so good that Drag Strip nearly forgot he was supposed to make Breakdown overload. For that matter, it felt so good that he could barely even continue kissing Breakdown – he kept being distracted by Breakdown kissing him instead. Each time Breakdown’s glossa flicked against his, he couldn’t do more than whimper in the depths of his throat and hope Breakdown would take that as an invitation to do more.

Finally he lifted his head, air rushing in quick pants through his intakes, and tried to focus on the job at hand. _Got to make him feel this way too._ Not that it would be too difficult – he was hardly as naïve and inexperienced as he’d been before all that had started. He could satisfy Breakdown and get that over with, and then maybe Breakdown would start touching him all over again… kneading his shoulders… fingers skimming down the length of his arms… rubbing slow hard circles over the receptors in his--

“Drag Strip?” Breakdown said.

Jolted out of his fantasy, Drag Strip shook his head, realizing suddenly that he had been doing absolutely nothing for the past minute or so except sitting on top of Breakdown. _Probably with a stupid glazed look on my face, too. Concentrate, slag it! Start with his neck and work down from there._

“Sorry about that,” he said, bending again so he could nibble on the cables in Breakdown’s neck. “I, um, got a radio transmission.”

“Oh.” Breakdown shifted a little in response. “Do you need to leave?”

What worried Drag Strip was that he needed a moment to consider his response. “No, absolutely not!” sounded over-eager, maybe desperate. “Uh… no, not really” might make Breakdown feel insecure, but it also sounded wimpish, like he wasn’t certain himself.

He settled for mumbling something incoherent and continuing to kiss his way down Breakdown’s throat. To his relief, Breakdown didn’t press the issue and he was able to go on. Remembering how it had felt to have his own throat kissed, he carefully duplicated the action on Breakdown, mouthing the warm metal before moving to the flexible joint where neck met shoulder. He pressed his lips to the slight gap, cycled his intakes and blew softly inside, glancing up at Breakdown’s face every now and then to make sure his foreplay was having an effect.

That only made him more worried, though. Breakdown didn’t look turned off (or worse, bored), but there was none of the dazed, helpless pleasure that Drag Strip knew had been all over his own expression like a new paintjob. Breakdown seemed more… watchful… than anything else.

Grim determination took over and Drag Strip redoubled his efforts. He rubbed his cheek lightly against Breakdown’s chestplate, then traced the tip of his glossa over smooth dark-blue metal.

“A little to the right,” Breakdown said. Drag Strip moved obligingly. “No, _my_ right.” Breakdown’s hands came up to clasp his helm and reposition his head.

Drag Strip tamped down a momentary resentment and began to kiss Breakdown’s chestplate again in the new spot, wondering what exactly he was supposed to be aiming for. Was there a sensor node under the armor? Maybe a receptor cluster? Circuit bundle? Or was the entire slagging area an erogenous zone? He looked up at Breakdown’s face, which gave him no clue whatsoever. _Should I have gone for his wheels instead? At least I know where I stand with wheels. Or should I go down? Up or down?_ In desperation he nuzzled the nearest transformation seam.

Breakdown laughed. “That tickles!”

 _Thanks a fragging lot,_ Drag Strip thought, fuming. He shifted sideways, noticing that the steady idle of Breakdown’s engine hadn’t changed, which meant he wasn’t in the least turned on.

“Could you move your leg?” Breakdown said. “It’s making my knee go numb.”

 _I think your entire chassis must be numb._ Drag Strip twitched his leg aside, swallowed his irritation and scooted lower. He pressed his face against the blocky joint of Breakdown’s hip, then nipped the seam gently.

“Mmm… harder.”

Frustrated, Drag Strip bit down.

“Ow!” Breakdown said. “Not that hard!”

Drag Strip sat up, feeling as though he had finally had enough. “Okay, knock it off. No one likes a back-seat driver.”

“No one likes a driver who doesn’t know where the slag he’s going either.”

Drag Strip had to restrain himself from punching Breakdown in the abdominal plating. “I do know where I’m going!”

“Yeah, you’re going nowhere and you’re getting there fast.” Breakdown folded his arms across his chestplate, not even seeming to realize just how close he was to being dented. “Look, Drag Strip, this isn’t working. You even keep staring at me, and you know I hate that.”

“But I…” Drag Strip trailed off; how could he say _But I need to do that to tell whether you’re getting excited?_ Someone experienced and skillful wouldn’t need such reassurance.

“We can do this later,” Breakdown said. “No pleasure. I mean, no pressure. Maybe next time we’ll--”

“No.” Drag Strip shifted to one side, lifting his legs off Breakdown. His back was to the wall now – in more ways than one – but that only brought out the best in him, made him even more bent on success.

“I know what to do,” he said. “Turn over.”

“Why?” Breakdown said warily.

“I’ll show you.” Drag Strip reached for Breakdown’s hand, brought it to his mouth and kissed the palm. It didn’t matter, in that moment, whether he overloaded or Breakdown did. What mattered was that he overcame his own fears and uncertainties.

“I’ll show you,” he whispered, and was no longer sure whether he was speaking to Breakdown or not.

Slowly Breakdown turned over, lying chest-down on the berth. Drag Strip looked down at the white hood and roof and thought, _I’ve been in this position. _He still didn’t know what to do… but he knew what _not_ to do.__

A little of the weight slipped away from him. He touched the nape of Breakdown’s neck, drawing small circles on it with the flat of his thumb.

“This way you can’t see me looking at you,” he said, then moved to fit his torso against Breakdown’s back, so the vibrations as he spoke would travel through white plating to the circuits beneath.

“I guess.” Breakdown shifted a little, so Drag Strip propped himself up on his elbows. “But do you have to stare?”

Drag Strip licked a wet line down Breakdown’s back strut, then blew lightly on it. “Doesn’t Wildrider look at you when you interface?”

Breakdown squirmed. “Mmm…. yes. But he looks everywhere – at the ceiling and the walls too.”

 _Figures. Can’t focus on the same thing for five seconds._ Drag Strip traced one of Breakdown’s shoulder struts with the tip of his glossa, then moved downward to Breakdown’s spoiler. “And Dead End?”

“I don’t really mind him looking.”

Drag Strip felt suddenly jealous. _What does he have that I don’t? Probably just that prissy attitude._ Not that it mattered. Breakdown was with him now, not with Dead End, and Drag Strip was the one who’d be blowing every circuit breaker Breakdown had.

He slipped lower and dropped a kiss on the small of Breakdown’s back. Breakdown tensed a little, then relaxed again. Drag Strip smiled, making sure his face was still pressed to smooth plating so that Breakdown could feel that, then drew back a little. He propped his head up on one elbow so that he still had one hand free, and let his fingers drift lazily over Breakdown’s back.

That time, he didn’t feel any obligation to seek out sensor-rich areas, didn’t tell himself that he had to move in any particular direction. He just explored instead, tracing the narrow lines of white metal between windows tinted so dark that he couldn’t see past them. He stroked the well-polished surface of Breakdown’s hood, cool and smooth as enamel, tested the hinges of doors and drew his fingertips in parallel lines over the roof.

“T-touch my headlights,” Breakdown whispered.

“Like this?” Drag Strip pushed his fingers deep into his own engine block, held them there just long enough for them to become hot and then traced a circle over one headlight. Breakdown’s whole body jolted. Quickly Drag Strip took his fingers away and slipped them into his mouth.

 _Ow!_ He felt as though he had just burned his own glossa, but he couldn’t break the moment by drawing attention to that. And looking stupid. So he only clamped his jaws shut an instant before he would have gasped with pain, and began to pet the other headlight. Breakdown seemed to like that even more, so Drag Strip just breathed through his mouth to cool it down and thought, _The things I do for my teammates._

Not that he minded doing it for Breakdown. He started to enjoy himself again as Breakdown’s engine shifted gears, purring a little more strongly. _I’d like to hear that really rev_ , Drag Strip thought and looked at the length of Breakdown’s spoiler.

He remembered how much it had hurt when Motormaster had wrenched his own spoiler half off, and Breakdown’s wasn’t even as large, so he fondled it carefully. Breakdown whimpered and arched his back, pushing against Drag Strip’s palm.

 _Who says I can’t drive without directions?_ Drag Strip leaned forward, until his lips nearly touched the surface of Breakdown’ spoiler. “Do you like that?” he whispered.

“Tease.” The word was muffled in the berth’s surface.

“Can’t hear you.” Drag Strip traced the line of the spoiler with his glossa.

Breakdown moaned. “Oh… don’t stop…”

Drag Strip shifted both his weight and his grip, his hands closing around the joints where the spoiler met Breakdown’s back. Then he bent his head, closed his mouth on the top of Breakdown’s spoiler and sucked.

Breakdown bucked under him, his engine growling. The vibrations shuddered through Drag Strip again, but this time they felt like soft sandpaper rubbing against sensors and receptors. He gasped and rocked back on to his knees.

Released from his weight, Breakdown twisted around. His optics were barely focused, his mouth slack, and Drag Strip, still trembling with reaction, thought that nothing looked as good as seeing someone so unraveled with need… a need he had ignited and stoked.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispered, leaning down to kiss the base of Breakdown’s throat. To his surprise, Breakdown caught his shoulders, holding him up at a short distance.

“What does that mean, really?” he said, trailing his palms down Drag Strip’s arms. “Dead End told me that too, once, but he never said what there is about me that he finds appalling. I’d like to have been designed to slip under everyone’s attention, not to have mechs notice me, even if they like what they see.” He tested the cables in Drag Strip’s wrists, then let his hands go.

Drag Strip bit back his annoyance that Dead End had beaten him to the compliment. _Just tell him why you think he’s pretty,_ he thought, which was when it occurred to him that he didn’t quite know why.

“I’m not sure,” he said. He glanced at Breakdown’s frame for inspiration, but found none. Whatever Breakdown had, it wasn’t an easy quality to define. “You’re sleek and streamlined, but so am I – more so. You have a lovely paintjob, but it’s not as striking as mine. Even your spoiler isn’t as big. But you’ve got…” At a loss for words, he waved his fingers back and forth. “…something. It’s indefinable. Like it’s below the surface.”

He felt frustrated with his own inability to be specific, and Breakdown’s optics narrowed to thin slivers. In the next moment, though, dark-blue hands locked around Drag Strip’s elbows and pulled him forward. Not expecting that, he fell across Breakdown, engine block clanking against chestplate, and found himself looking at Breakdown’s smile up close.

“What a Drag Strip compliment,” Breakdown said, and now he sounded more amused than annoyed. “I’m glad you’re part of the team,” he whispered, and smothered any reply Drag Strip might have made with a kiss.

That time it wasn’t just Drag Strip’s chassis that felt as though it was turning liquid. His struts dissolved, replaced by a dark fluid fire that filled him so completely that he couldn’t do anything beside lean into the kiss. Breakdown’s mouth felt so warm, so eager, but it was what Breakdown had said that brought down the last of his defences, left him completely vulnerable and not caring.

He returned the kiss hungrily, forgetting that he was supposed to appear polished and practiced. It didn’t matter any more, not when Breakdown guided his hands to the correct sensors and trembled when he caressed them. Drag Strip finally broke the kiss, only to keep kissing Breakdown’s jaw and throat and shoulder, again and again and again. He could feel Breakdown’s arms around him, could hear Breakdown saying his name, and nothing had ever sounded as good as hearing his own name groaned like that.

Overheat warnings flashed across his vision. Breakdown gripped his shoulders hard and his own engine revved harder.

“Move with me,” Breakdown whispered.

Drag Strip lifted his head. Move with him? Up and down or, uh, sideways, or… “How?” he managed to say.

Breakdown’s hands moved down to grasp his hips, and he spread his legs just enough to hold Drag Strip’s frame between them. “Like this,” he said, and shifted slowly against Drag Strip.

His thighs slid against Drag Strip’s with a soft metallic scrape, cool white against molten gold. Drag Strip heard air rasp out through his intakes as Breakdown pushed against him, slowly and repeatedly. He tried to do the same thing, and although it felt more like he was rocking awkwardly, Breakdown didn’t seem to mind. His engine raced as he continued to move.

Drag Strip’s own responses eased, became smoother. With less kibble on their legs, there was nothing to catch against or stop the rhythmic contact that was part friction and part caress, and Drag Strip realized that it was stimulating far more sensors than Breakdown could have reached even with both hands. And yet, since the movements were slow and didn’t reach below his armor, his arousal was slower too.

But what it lacked in speed it made up for in strength. The heat beneath his plating felt as if it would scorch him, and he kept trying to rock faster, only to be restrained by Breakdown’s tight hold on his hips. Receptor after receptor was pushed to a near-unbearable intensity of sensation, making him whimper with need. Breakdown said something he didn’t hear, then released one hand so he could take Drag Strip’s jaw between finger and thumb and kiss him – hard, that time, and thorough.

Drag Strip groaned into Breakdown’s mouth and rocked faster, rubbing his thighs and pelvic unit against Breakdown’s forcefully. He felt Breakdown stiffen beneath him, then arch up violently, and the shock sent pulses thudding through his own systems.

For a moment, though, he wasn’t even sure that he had overloaded. It felt so different from the time he had shuddered and jerked in Breakdown’s arms on the floor of the room. This time, instead of the overload being sharp and wrenching, it flowed through him, lapping through his limbs as though none of his internal circuitry was in its way. Drag Strip gasped, but he didn’t have the strength to cry out as the waves of pleasure came deep and heavy, pulling him down. He was weightless in the grip of an ecstasy that darkened his vision, made him sink and drown, with Breakdown’s frame the only solid thing in the world, and then even the grip of Breakdown’s arms around him was gone as he offlined.

He didn't know how long it was before he came back to reality, still shivering occasionally with the reaction. His limbs felt limp and wrung-out. Mustering the last of his strength, he slid to one side and rested his face against Breakdown’s shoulder. Although he knew he wouldn’t receive a curt order to get out, Breakdown would still want to recharge in peace, so he hoped his systems would reboot quickly. Still, he wished he didn’t have to leave.

A dark-blue finger traced the line of his jaw and then slid beneath his chin, tilting it up. Drag Strip met Breakdown's optics, expecting to be asked to leave as soon as he pulled himself back together and mentally preparing for that. He wouldn’t whine or ask for anything more.

“Let’s do it again,” Breakdown said softly.

 _Again?_ Drag Strip felt too tired to drive back to his room, much less do it again so soon. Still, he couldn’t say that. What if interfacing three (or, Primus forbid, more) times in rapid succession was normal? Breakdown would think he was a wimp.

“Uh, okay,” he said in a small voice, then cursed himself silently and tried to sound more enthusiastic. “Sure! You can be on top this time.” _Maybe that way I could recharge and he might not notice._

Breakdown began to laugh. “I was kidding,” he managed to say between very Wildrider-like giggles. “Slag, you should have seen the look on your face!”

Drag Strip shoved him half-heartedly, too pleasurably spent to do anything more. And being teased by one of his teammates wasn’t too bad. “Give me a minute and I’ll go back to my room.”

“You can recharge here if you like,” Breakdown said.

“Here?” Drag Strip said, surprised.

Breakdown nodded. “Berth’s wide enough. Turn over.”

Drag Strip knew such an order had been given to him before, but the sound was an echo and came from far enough a distance that it no longer mattered. He turned over, pressing his engine block and abdominal plating to the berth’s surface. Breakdown shifted closer to him, fitting their frames together and wrapping one arm around Drag Strip’s waist.

He rested his head on the back of Drag Strip’s shoulder, engine purring in contentment before settling down to a quiet idle. That felt good too. Offlining his optics, Drag Strip settled down to recharge.

His optics onlined again, abruptly.

“Breakdown?”

There was no response.

“Breakdown!” Drag Strip poked backwards with his elbow.

“Ow!” Breakdown sat up sharply.

“Was I better?”

“Better than what?”

“Than Wildrider and Dead End.”

“At what?”

“At juggling.” Drag Strip made an irritated sound, and twisted around so he could look Breakdown in the optics. “What do you think? At interfacing, of course!”

“You… you…” Breakdown seemed momentarily lost for words, though he recovered quickly. “You’ve done it twice and you think you could be better than--”

“Well, I’m the fastest, so why couldn’t I be the best at this as well? Maybe I have a natural talent for it.”

Breakdown just stared at him, his face blank and optics flickering. Drag Strip had never seen quite such an expression before, and wondered if his suggestion had given Breakdown a short circuit. _Or maybe it never occurred to him that I have a natural talent._ Yes, that was it. Everyone else had to work to be good at it, but--

“Yes,” Breakdown said in a husky whisper. “You’re the best.”

“I am?” Drag Strip said happily.

Breakdown nodded, then leaned forward and pressed his lips to the back of Drag Strip’s neck. “You’re the best I’ve ever had, Dead End,” he said hoarsely.

“Oh, very funny!”

“Sorry, I meant Drag Strip,” Breakdown said in a normal voice before switching back to a thick rasp. “You’ve fulfilled me,” he panted as he nibbled at Drag Strip’s shoulder strut. “I finally know what it means to be a Stunticon.”

Drag Strip twisted back around. “I’m surprised you can pronounce the word. Now can I get some recharge?”

“You’ve ruined me for any other mech.”

“Shut the frag up already!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it (unless I get an idea for a fic called "The Third Time", where Wildrider and Drag Strip finally get it on). Hope you enjoyed the ride, and please leave a review!


End file.
